“Tell me, Hugh MacHugh,” she began, “have you ever heard the saying that a man must fight for what he wants in life?”
Hugh MacHugh gave her a look of astonishment, but finally nodded.
“Then you’ll understand that women must do the same,” she expanded.
When he only stared at her, owl-eyed, she snatched up the willow band, brandishing it like a sword.
“I am about to ride into battle. And this” — she laughed as she wielded the bobbing willow — “is going to help me win.”
“God go with you and keep you.” Ronan stared after the departing company of MacKenzies.
Riding as one, they moved fast. Tight-knit, banners flying, and shouting their slogan, the fore riders in their ranks were already cresting the next ridge.
Ronan watched them, his every sense alert.
Mounted no less nobly and drawn up high atop his own vantage point, he felt a great surge of relief. By long custom, he shot a glance over his shoulder, but saw naught amiss. Even so, his horse shifted and tossed its head, the low clouds and scudding mist making him nervous.
He patted the beast’s neck, spoke a few soothing words.
And still the MacKenzies rode on.
Scores of powerful hoofbeats tossed up clumps of sod and thundered on the chill morning air, the clank of armor and the creak of leather drowning out the soft soughing of the Highland wind.
The saining words Torcaill murmured so quietly.
Ancient blessings so old their meanings were indecipherable to anyone who hadn’t lived them.
Ronan slid a glance at the druid, noting that his staff gleamed bright silver against the drifting mist.
Indeed, the thing pulsed and glowed in rhythm with the rise and fall of the graybeard’s incantations.
Safeguarding spells that seemed to be working, however much the words sounded like gibberish.
Ronan frowned.
Grateful as he was for the druid’s support, it galled him that such measures were necessary.
That Glen Dare wasn’t as . . . others.
His heart began to hammer in his ears and he let out a long breath, almost a sigh.
He kept his gaze pinned on the riders, his shoulders tense until the valiant array spurred up the braeside to gather on the hill’s summit.
And not just any summit.
Steep, heather-covered and scored with rock-strewn corries, the rise marked the end of Dare’s influence and the beginning of the Black Stag’s own territory.
Not surprisingly, the skies were brighter there. Indeed, as he looked on, pale sun broke through the clouds, the slanting rays streaming down to glint brightly off so much massed steel and valor.
The Black Stag was easily recognizable. Ever a man apart, he sat his horse proudly, black mail gleaming and his dark hair whipping in the wind. Nearby one of his men held the MacKenzie banner aloft, silken furls snapping.
“The saints hold that one dear.” Glad for it, Ronan kept his back straight, in respect.
Beside him, Torcaill lifted hisslachdan druidheachdin silent salute.
As if Kintail knew, he raised a hand.
For one long and disconcerting moment, Ronan was sure he could feel the older man’s stare boring into him. But then the Black Stag turned, signaling to his trumpeter.
